


coal to diamonds, sold to fools

by ashkatom



Category: Hatoful Kareshi | Hatoful Boyfriend
Genre: Humansonas, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6413260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I aim to provide unlooked-for pleasures, <i>mon amie</i>,” Sakazaki says from further back in the tent. “Much like your company. I wouldn’t have expected-” His words cut off in a choke, and you look up, feeling your entire face burn red. Amazing, all it took to make you feel humiliated again. His hand covers his mouth as he regards you. “What seems to be the problem?” he asks, weakly.</p>
<p>Or, We All Agree Sakuya Should Have Been In A Cheerleader Uniform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	coal to diamonds, sold to fools

**Author's Note:**

> hi, new fandom, i'm so sorry. i regret nothing. please mind the tags.
> 
> (is there an actual tag for the humansonas, or.)

You are beginning to think that perhaps something was lost in translation when it comes to the word ‘cheerleader’. Kawara is giving you such a _look_ over his - you don’t want to dignify the cafeteria’s supplies by calling it a meal, and Tosaka is wearing the excessively innocent face she only wears when she is about to twist your dignity in knots.

“Sure,” Kawara says, slowly, looking you up and down. “I have a spare uniform from the cultural festival last year. It should fit.”

“Great!” Tosaka chirps, and elbows you. “Sakuya, say thank you, geez! He’s doing you a favour.”

“I am not a mannerless hellion, Tosaka,” you say, stiffly, and incline your head to Kawara in the minimum possible gratitude. “If I am to lead, I should be appropriately attired. I am grateful for your assistance, Kawara. It is short notice.”

“Mmhm,” Kawara says, strangled. “It’s definitely traditional attire,” he adds, after a glance at Tosaka.

—

You have never been so humiliated in your life. “Tosaka-”

Tosaka, horrifically, peers around the door she’s guarding. “Oh! It looks good,” she says, and enters the room, shutting the door behind her. “You’ve got it twisted though, here.” Before you can fend her off, she takes the waistband of the _skirt_ that Kawara gave you and gives it a few businesslike tugs that bring the seams into better alignment - and, to your horror, drag it another inch higher. The skirt doesn’t _have_ an inch to spare.

“Tosaka!” you snap, and pretend it doesn’t sound like a plea. “I can’t be seen like this!”

“Why not?” she asks, guileless. “I will be.”

It’s true. As your Vice President, she has also secured one of these flimsy excuses of a uniform. It suits her better than it does you, however. Furthermore, you have your doubts that Tosaka would bat an eye at going out there naked. “These are _women’s_ clothes!” you manage to sputter.

“Mmm, no.” She looks you over critically and then does something to the skirt that makes it even shorter. You only barely resist the urge to grab the hem and stop her from running away with it. “They’re Ryouta’s clothes. Really, Sakuya, all this fuss isn’t what I expected out of a noble! I thought you were meant to have a stoic bearing, or something. Ryouta didn’t make this much of a fuss about wearing a skirt last year. He didn’t even have the boots to hide in.” She flicks the top of one of your boots, which you have refused to surrender.

Your desire to not be exposing your legs wars with your guilt at not providing an adequately noble example for Tosaka to follow. As always, the guilt wins. As if Monsieur Le Bel is training you, your shoulders straighten and your chin jerks up, impassivity settling over your features. Kawara did this? Very well; you’ll do it _better_. “Are you done, Tosaka? We have a school relying on us to raise its morale.”

“We sure do,” she says, seriously, and follows you out of your appropriated changing room.

—

The instant you allow yourself to think that this entire situation might not be the most embarrassing thing ever to happen to you, everything goes wrong. _Perhaps_ you were more enthusiastic than you intended, but nevertheless, you misplace your foot, twist your ankle, and Tosaka refuses to let you carry on with your duties.

“I told you not to wear the tall boots and do the bouncy kicks,” she says, looping your arm over her shoulder and taking your weight with no visible sign of effort. “Can you walk on it or should I carry you?”

“Tosaka-” you grit out. You can feel the tips of your ears turning red at the notion of being _carried_ by this commoner, as if you were some sort of helpless damsel in distress.

“I’ll take that as a no to the carrying.” She sighs and wraps her free arm around your back. “Come on. The infirmary tent isn’t far.”

You have never had cause to visit the infirmary. As a Le Bel, your lack of weakness is an important symbol to the commoners, and so you’ve always taken due care to not allow sicknesses into your sphere. Still, a sprained ankle can happen regardless of precautions, and Monsieur Le Bel holds Doctor Iwamine in the highest regard. It would be more of a problem to _not_ wait in the infirmary, where at the very least nobody will have to see you being weak.

“Oh! Yuuya!” Tosaka exclaims when you get to the entrance of the infirmary tent, compounding your misery. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

“I aim to provide unlooked-for pleasures, _mon amie_ ,” Sakazaki says from further back in the tent. “Much like your company. I wouldn’t have expected-” His words cut off in a choke, and you look up, feeling your entire face burn red. Amazing, all it took to make you feel humiliated again. His hand covers his mouth as he regards you. “What seems to be the problem?” he asks, weakly.

“Where is Doctor Iwamine?” you snarl, before Tosaka can keep talking. “I refuse to allow your- _filthy_ -”

“Whoa!” Tosaka looks alarmed and pats at your shoulder. “Sakuya, it’s just Yuuya.”

Sakazaki sighs and waves a hand, directing Tosaka to bring you further into the tent. She takes a step, and then another, and you’re forced to stumble along with her or suffer the added degradation of falling on your face. “Doctor Iwamine has other duties. It’s my filthy _mongrel_ hands or crawling home in ignominious defeat.”

“O _kay_ ,” Tosaka says, slowly, following Sakazaki behind a partition. She deposits you on the bed there, and then cruelly tears herself away with a, “I’d better go take care of the band,” and a quick wave. You understand - you’d rather not be involved in this low-brow drama either - but you will never forgive.

You picked up on calling Yuuya a mongrel before you were old enough to understand the implications. It took _Maman_ taking you aside and gently explaining that the features people were cruel to Sakazaki over were features that she had loved, and that she _hoped_ that you would never be so cruel as to mock love to make you stop, and even now the memory of her tone makes you sick with guilt. Sakazaki _knows_ , or he wouldn’t taunt you with it. At least you’re the only one here - it _is_ late in the day - and the partition gives you privacy enough to swallow your embarrassment and compose yourself.

“My question stands, _mon ami_ ,” Sakazaki says after a long, awkward silence. You wouldn’t have expected it out of him, but it seems that he is acting with a minimum of professionalism, allowing the both of you to replace your masks. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I fell,” you mutter to your knees. It isn’t very in line with your noble countenance, but Sakazaki is the last person you want to deal with at the moment. The ridiculousness of your outfit has reasserted itself, and the energy from your performance has disappeared. You were able to lose yourself in conducting the band, for a short while, but now you regret going along with this diversion. Kawara is certainly going to have some explaining to do, tomorrow. “I require only a place to sit, Sakazaki, not your attention.”

“Ah, wounded pride.” The portable bed you’re sitting on isn’t very sturdy. This does not deter Sakazaki in the least from hoisting himself onto it, sitting at the other end to you. “Nonetheless, I couldn’t possibly allow a scion of the Le Bel family to leave without having his wounds examined. Give me your leg.”

“ _Sakazaki_ -”

“One day,” he says, companionably, “I am sure you will learn that repeating someone’s surname whilst exasperated is unlikely to work as a command. Leg, Sakuya. Now.” To punctuate his order, he pats the bed in front of him. You’ve growled under your breath and swung your legs up with an accompanying wince at the jarring of your ankle before you realise the irony of obeying him, and the poorly-concealed smirk he wears is irritating enough that you lie back on the bed to avoid it.

You bolt back upright when you feel his hands on your thigh. “ _What_ -”

He looks up from undoing the laces of your boot and raises one eyebrow. “Have you always been this nervous, or do I merely inspire something within you? I apologise for the necessity of disrobing you, but I assure you, my intentions are - _noble_.”

Your composure utterly gone, you pull your leg out of his grasp. “I can remove my own shoe,” you snap, drawing your knee up to bring the laces within reach. You then immediately balk and drop your knee back down when the look he gives you makes you realise that you can’t - at least, not without losing whatever tatters remain of your dignity. Tosaka, confound her, made this skirt _very_ short. “I-” you stammer out, internally berating yourself. A Le Bel does not _stammer_ , but Sakazaki is discomfiting company. “You may-”

“Don’t strain yourself, _mon ami_.” Sakazaki stretches your leg out again, placing your foot in his lap, before getting started on your bootlaces. You now have an entirely different problem, encapsulated in the push-pull pressure of him unlacing your boots, the glancing contact his knuckles make against your skin when he tests to see if he’s loosened the laces enough, and the realisation that this skirt really is entirely too short. You want your Vice President back, if only to berate her interpretation of the dress code. 

You have suspected that you have a - a _problem_ for a while now. Perhaps the most damning indication is Tosaka, who flirts with everything. The one time you hesitantly attempted to flirt back, she gave you a devastatingly pitying look and ruffled your hair. Neither of you have spoken of it since, and if - _if_ , perhaps, your eyes have strayed to, say. Kawara. Well. She has been kind enough to not announce it to the world. Further than that, you have made no attempt to come to terms with your - predilections. You will be married, eventually, to some eligible daughter. The Le Bel lineage trumps your own desires, as always.

You, ah. You wish it were doing a better job. It - you have accepted a certain amount of depravity in yourself, but, this is- It’s not that your _half-brother_ is an object of desire, but - he keeps _touching_ you, and perhaps you were a \- a tad more fond of these boots than you realised, and you can hardly breathe and your mouth is dry and the only thing saving you from being the most depraved person you know ( _including_ Tosaka) is distracting yourself by scrunching your toes in your boot, sending a shooting pain through your ankle.

“If you don’t quit your twitching, I will amputate your foot,” Sakazaki says, his perfectly calm voice never breaking. “Perhaps you can distract yourself by telling me the story of how you came to be wearing a skirt instead.” He continues the hypnotic rhythm of unthreading your laces, having given up on simply loosening the shoe. His concentration seems to be ferociously on his work, which lets you look at him. For all his inadequate genes, your half-brother certainly has nothing to complain about in terms of looks. Your hair and eyes, you both inherited from _Maman_ , but your similarities end there. He inherited a mix of his father’s and _Maman_ ’s complexions, a shade hard to pin down to any nationality. His face is only saved from being equally nondescript by cheekbones that you _didn’t_ inherit, which you find unfair. For all he wears his clothes a size too large, his build is slighter than yours - you’re unsure if that comes from _Maman_ or his father, since you expect your less-waifish bones come from Monsieur Le Bel.

He has your hands, though - or you, his. It is difficult not to resent the freedom with which he can use them. There are enough whispers about him that you know he plays the instruments of his choice, as it were.

“It was Tosaka’s idea,” you say, an inadequate and incomplete explanation that nonetheless is all you want to tell Sakazaki about the situation at hand. 

“One must never disappoint a lady,” Sakazaki agrees, and draws your bootlace through the last of the boot’s eyelets with one long stretch of his arm. “Brace yourself, _mon ami_ , this may be painful.” Through a combination of prying the boot open as far as it will bend, Sakazaki’s long fingers being put to a better use than you imagine they usually are, and you swearing in French through your teeth, the shoe does come off. You tilt your head back to enjoy a well-earned sigh of relief at the lack of pressure, only to have it cut short by Sakazaki ruthlessly pulling your sock off and pressing his thumbs into the bare arch of your foot.

You screech and kick at him, then shriek a word in French that _Maman_ had hoped you would never learn at the pain that ignites in your ankle. The kick misses, thankfully, Sakazaki twisting out of the way and seizing your leg in case you try again. You don’t, being too busy gritting your teeth and staring at the ceiling - Le Bels, above all, do not _cry_ \- and it takes a moment for you to process his alarmed jangling of - “Sakuya. _Sakuya_ , did I hurt you? Sakuya!”

You take a deep breath. Any calming effect it might have had abandons you when another aftershock of pain stabs through the joint, and you snap, “You might have _warned_ me, Sakazaki!”

“If the arch of your foot is hurt as well it may be more serious,” Sakazaki says, apparently reassured as to your well-being by your continued breathing.

There is nothing about this situation that isn’t embarrassing. To borrow a local cultural note, you’ve almost reached a certain Zen meditative quality about it. Surely one more detail thrown onto the heap can do no more harm than the ones before. “It was simply unexpected,” you say, brusque, and attempt to move on before he can make too much of it. “It is a _sprain_ , Sakazaki, not gangrenous and in need of amputation.”

Sakazaki, unfortunately, latches onto your words, looking up from his continued examination of your foot. A slow, unbelieving smile spreads across his face. “ _Mon dieu_. Surely it isn’t in the Le Bel genetics to be ticklish.” When you don’t respond, he twitches his hand towards the sole of your foot again. The instant they touch, you blurt a noise that is half scream and half unwilling laugh, clawing your way backwards with your hands. Sakazaki is laughing hard enough to sprain something himself, and you wish he would, as he chases your foot. “Sakuya - _mon ami_ , I have to test this, it’s very important - you wouldn’t stand in the way of _science_ -”

“I will break your fingers if you dare lay a _single_ one on me,” you yelp, continuing to scoot backwards. “I will - I will _call Tosaka_!”

His hand closes on your calf and he pulls. You, luckily, manage to swallow the noise that inspires in you and bare your teeth at him instead, yanking back while attempting to maintain the equilibrium of your clothing. Unfortunately, this leaves you no way of maintaining your own equilibrium, and Sakazaki doesn’t expect you to escape him. You don’t, to be perfectly accurate. When you fall off the bed, you catch one glimpse of the moment he realises the situation before you hit the ground. He lands half on top of you, your knee driving into his stomach, and at first you think you’ve perhaps broken his ribs when all he does is wheeze on top of you.

You realise your miscalculation when he pushes himself up, looks at you thoughtfully, and then digs his fingers into your side. While you curse and thrash and try to crawl away, he sits on your legs with gleeful sadism, pins you in place while hunting down every single sensitive point along your sides and ruthlessly tortures you with them. You’re gasping for breath, nearly sobbing and on the verge of begging - you’ve lost language entirely, and think your few words might be coming out in French - when his hands still and his head whips around to face the entrance of the tent.

Perhaps you had lost track of where you were, distracted by the flex of Sakazaki’s thighs and the Herculean effort required to not have it be - ah, _more_ distracting. It comes crashing back now, with the sound of things being moved outside your partition, your half-brother on top of you, and you in the shortest skirt on this god-forsaken Earth. 

“Move,” Sakazaki says, in a harsh whisper, and - _oh_. He simply grabs your waist and _moves_ you, as if he’s as robust as Tosaka, and that is what finally jolts you into making an - an unwise noise. He gives you an odd look, but plants a hand on your chest and pushes down when you try to get up, holding a finger over his lips. From where you are, the bed hides you from view, but Sakazaki is still in the open.

“What-” you hiss at him, before he clamps a hand down over your mouth. He loosens his tie with the other hand, before pulling his ridiculous barrettes out with practiced ease. Rumpling his hair is the work of a second, after which he gives you a warning look and takes his hand off your mouth to - unbutton his _shirt_. “Saka-”

Before you can get out the rest of his name, despite your outrage, he leans down and presses his lips to yours, fingers still working at his shirt. You stare at him the whole time he kisses you, your concept of the world broken so thoroughly that you can do nothing but contemplate the question of whether you died at some point today and have gone to hell, and then he’s gone just before you come to a conclusion. Hair mussed, shirt hanging off his shoulder, lips wet, he picks himself up and saunters out of your partition, leaving you with two barrettes and no dignity to your name.

“Sakazaki,” you hear, in quiet, bland tones that make you carefully place a knuckle between your teeth and bite down. Doctor Iwamine. For once, you are in complete agreement with Sakazaki; you have no desire to compound the disgrace that has been your day by having the man who _saved your father’s life_ find you like this. “I heard… screaming.”

“Ah,” your half-brother says, sounding completely unconcerned. “It’s been a slow day. I was… otherwise occupied with one of my lovely charges, if you catch my drift.”

A long pause. “Regrettably.”

Sakazaki laughs, and you close your eyes and do your very best to spontaneously generate a stockpile of faith within you to fuel some heartfelt prayers. He _cannot possibly-_ “Well. I wonder if you might be tempted to turn a blind eye to our predicament. I would hate to leave the lady unsatisfied with my service.”

Another long pause, a rustle. Ten more seconds, then Sakazaki comes back into your partition, sits down on the bed, and stares at his lap, arms hanging off his knees. “It’s safe, _mon ami_ ,” he says, but his voice belies his words.

“What-” you say, before trailing off awkwardly. It would be - strange, to care about his well-being now.

Regardless, in answer, Sakazaki opens one of his hands. A long strip of brightly-coloured foil wrappers drop to the floor. “I had no idea he cared,” he says, and you’re not sure whether he’s horrified or trying not to laugh.

Carefully, favouring your ankle, you push yourself up and limp around to sit beside him. It has been a long day and you are exhausted from being yanked around both by your hormones and the Fates, and this is the last straw. Today, officially, has not happened. You are replacing your memories with a bland day spent in math class and on student council paperwork. Anything is better than contemplating Doctor Iwamine providing your brother with condoms.

“So,” Sakazaki says, hands absent-mindedly going to his shirt, putting the buttons back in order. “You had an… interesting reaction earlier, _mon frère_.”

You freeze, your grip white-knuckled on the edge of the bed. “To which event?” you manage, although it lacks the bite you wish it had. “Your entirely inappropriate groping, or the-” you cut off, abruptly, and bite your lip. If you say it, it becomes real, and you - don’t want to think about that. You’ve already declared today to not exist; one more thing isn’t so large a burden.

“ _I_ have a reputation as a depraved reprobate,” Sakazaki says, leaning back on his hands and nudging your shoulder with his own. His glasses are annoyingly askew, hair trailing in his face. “Whereas you have no reputation at all. I’m curious to learn whatever truth you’re hiding.”

Your grip on the bed tightens further, to the point that your hands are actually trembling. That said, for all your nerves - Sakazaki has never betrayed your secrets. He told Tosaka you were related, once, but only after she had all but surmised it after seeing the two of you shouting at each other. Aside from that, he has kept his distance and kept his secrets, and - and you don’t _care_ about his opinion. Furthermore, if rumour is correct, perhaps… perhaps he has advice.

“I,” you croak, then swallow to clear your throat. “I- prefer men.”

“Ah,” Sakazaki says, contemplative and not surprised in the least. After a moment, he lifts an arm in invitation. When you sigh, resign yourself to this being the worst day you have ever experienced, and lean against his side, his arm is solid around your shoulders. There’s none of the teasing boundary-pushing now, no smirk. You’re expecting him to declare his affection a prank, but every moment that ticks away tears more of your defences with it. When a minute passes of him saying nothing, you turn to bury your face in his shoulder, fist your hand in his shirt, and somehow find yourself in the midst of a complete emotional breakdown. Sakazaki does nothing but rub your back soothingly as you pretend you’re not crying into his shirt, which only serves to make everything worse.

When you’re done, Sakazaki carefully wipes your face with his sleeve. “I do prefer to not leave the gentlemen I kiss crying after the experience,” he says, dry, avoiding eye contact. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, _mon frère_. Love is supposed to bring you joy, not pain.”

“Perhaps,” you say, bitterly. “The rules are different for a _Le Bel_.”

Sakazaki’s hand tightens on your shoulder. “You make your own rules, Sakuya. If Le Bel succeeds in dictating your own love to you, he has failed as a father.” His words are nearly as bitter as yours, layered with an anger you don’t understand. They cut to your heart, regardless. Being a Le Bel is sacrifice, and you - had not realised how sick you were of inhabiting the body of the son Monsieur Le Bel wants you to be. Music, and behaviour, language and social circles, _love_. 

You don’t know how you’re going to stand up, walk out of here, and go back to being the Le Bel you’re supposed to be. You _will_ , because for all Sakazaki’s optimism, you don’t particularly have a choice in the matter. For now, instead, you pick Sakazaki’s barrettes up from where you placed them next to you and use your free hand to tuck his bangs back, awkwardly pinning them back to how he prefers them.

You probably should have expected him to kiss you. It’s a soft press of his lips, nothing like the earlier kiss - which you now realise was designed to keep you quiet more than anything else. You’ve only just finished the thought that he should have done this instead before he’s pulling away, a self-recriminatory smile already pasted on for your benefit. “I-”

Before he can dismiss his own actions, you grab his shirt and drag him back to you. You intend to kiss him - although pretending you have intentions at this point is a white lie, since you mostly just exist as frustration and the desire for _more_. More comfort, more affection, more of whatever Sakazaki has to offer you. Instead of your actions going well, however, you are cursed, and end up running your nose into Sakazaki’s.

He laughs, and your heart drops into your toes for a moment. Then he cradles your face in his hands and tilts his head, leaning in, and you melt. You had assumed that kissing was just a pressing-together of lips, but he kisses you again and again, grazing his lips against yours and pulling away when the feeling starts to dull, reducing you to a bundle of nerve endings that wants nothing more than the softness of his mouth. You’re about to dizzily declare yourself accustomed to this feeling, but then his hands slide down your back and his tongue presses against your lower lip. This, you are fairly certain, must be the most intense _kissing_ can be.

His teeth find your lip and tug, and you moan right against his mouth. This lack of composure would normally result in wanting to spontaneously combust, but he groans _back,_ and the thought that you are having a tenth the effect on Yuuya that he is having on you is more than enough to wipe out any embarrassment. Without taking even the least modicum of care, you climb onto the bed and push at him until he joins you, letting you straddle his lap. There’s no protest from him, this time; one hand immediately hooks into your collar to drag you down to him, while the other finds your thigh and strokes small circles into it. “Sakuya-”

You kiss him with expediency this time. You may not have his experience, but nobody can accuse you of being a slow learner. Only, when you slide your tongue against his lower lip, he opens his mouth. And you have found another area where you don’t know what to do. While you’re about to pull away, he brings the hand not currently occupied with your thigh to cup the back of your neck, trapping you in place, and thrusts his tongue against yours, rolling to press as much of his body against yours as he can. This is easy, because every muscle in your body turns liquid, collapsing you against him. When you experimentally suck on his tongue, he makes one of the stifled groans you are starting to recognise as a particularly good result and his hips jolt against you-

Uh. That \- that has to be a good sign. You’re hard enough that only the angle you’re leaning towards Yuuya at is letting you deal with that, but - you hadn’t expected him to - to _respond_. Carefully, you roll your hips against him, and he breaks away to gasp a string of unintelligible curses in Japanese, including your name. Your Japanese is good _enough_ , but you begin to regret its academic focus. 

Clumsily \- and you don’t think you’ve ever seen Yuuya clumsy - he wraps his arms around you and presses his face into your neck. “Sakuya, wait.”

“ _Non_ ,” you say, then add, “no,” in case he didn’t get the point and roll your hips again. You are nothing but nerve endings and hunger, and if you have to stop now you are going to follow Sakazaki just to throw things at him for the rest of his life.

“Just for now,” he says, and regretfully pulls away from you in order to look you in the eye for this conversation he insists on. “I need to know what you want from me, _mon frère_.”

Now that you’ve stopped, you can feel your lips stinging and swollen, your pulse thrumming through your entire body. You lick your lips absently as you process his words, and his fixation on your mouth is so sudden that you feel that too. “Really, Sakazaki,” you say, dredging up all the hauteur you can muster. “You’ve met me before. If I want you to stop, you’ll know.” It is ridiculous, considering that you’re all but panting wantonly on top of him - in, you must recall, a uniform that seems less decent by the minute - but it makes him smile.

Then his mouth is on your neck, and his _tongue_ \- slick, _hot -_ presses a searing line into your skin before he bites. This morning, you thought Tosaka putting you in a skirt was the fastest you’d ever lose your dignity, but Yuuya makes you wail nigh-instantly, and he is relentless as he continues his path down to your collarbones. His hands press up under your shirt, skimming it off with your assistance between sucking marks into your skin, and you’re gasping more than breathing by the time he rolls you over completely, leaving you in nothing but a skirt, the underwear your cock is straining against, and, ridiculously, a single boot.

“I would take my time,” Yuuya says, voice rough, as he traces a finger down your sternum and - keeps going, oh, _merde_. “But I think time is short, and it would hardly be kind of me to leave you wanting.”

“ _S'il te plaît_ ,” you breathe, “ _please_ -”

He reaches beneath your skirt to pull off your underwear, which you kick aside without looking away. And, _oh_ , you don’t care if he’s fucked a hundred people, a _thousand_ , if they taught him how to dispense this agony. If you had thought the hungry way he marked you felt good on your neck, it is unimaginable on the soft flesh of your thighs, leading ever closer to where you actually want his mouth. Then his tongue circles the head of your cock before his mouth envelopes it entirely and the only reason that the entire school doesn’t learn you are being debauched is because you bite into your arm to muffle the scream. Your hips thrash, and he lets them, lets _you_ fuck his face as you whimper nonsensical pleas into your arm, curl your toes and completely ignore the pain of your ankle, strain desperately against him for more, _more_ , Yuuya, _yes_ , _please_ -

You always thought that seeing stars was pithy poetry.

When you catch your breath, Yuuya has crawled up beside you, an arm under your shoulders keeping you curled up against him. He looks at you like you’re a wonder, that you are something important merely because you exist - like _Sakuya_ is more important than _Le Bel_. When he notices you looking back, he smiles the honest half-smile you’ve never seen before today and pulls you closer. It should feel suffocating, with the cramped confines of the bed, but it doesn’t.

The one problem with him pulling you closer is that it makes you realise that he would probably appreciate it if you returned the favour. You don’t think you’re quite prepared to match his performance ( _yet_ ), but you fumble for his pants nonetheless. He doesn’t protest the inequality when you wrap your hand around his cock and stroke, attempting to figure out how it works on another person, only pressing increasingly needy kisses into your neck and shoulder as he pumps into your hand. He’s silent, when he comes, but it’s nothing compared to the silence when you lick your hand clean in front of him.

“I love you,” he says, quiet truth after long moments of the two of you lying together and recovering. Everything should be awkward, but you have finally found the boundary where everything ceases to matter. You nod into his chest instead of responding properly; you don’t trust your words right now.

There are noises in the main body of the tent; regretfully, Yuuya stands, straightens out his uniform, and goes to intercept them before you even feel alarmed. The only clothes you have to wear are the cheerleading uniform, so you climb back into it and then sit back on the bed, which smells like sex. Yuuya comes in a minute later, a wrap bandage in one hand, and kneels in front of you to wrap it in a figure-eight around your ankle and foot.

“Better?” he asks.

“ _Oui_ ,” you say, and get that hidden half-smile again. After a moment, you add, “ _mon frère,_ ” and are rewarded with the sight of Yuuya Sakazaki turning red, something you think you might be the only person ever to see.

—

Kawara accepts the _thoroughly_ dry-cleaned uniform back when you shove it at him over, again, a cafeteria offering you refuse to dignify by calling ‘lunch’. “Oh!” he says, frown clearing up after he looks into the bag. “Sorry I didn’t see you. Hiyoko said you’d twisted your ankle.” He hesitates before essaying a careful, “How are you feeling now?”

“The infirmary is incompetent and overbearing,” you say, and Kawara rolls his eyes in agreement. “I may have to go back for a checkup.”


End file.
